As Assistant Chief Serrano expressed it, after consulting with the chief and the Department’s public information officer, Evelio Jimenez, “It’s one monstrous mess, and no one will come out smelling sweet. There could be problems, though, if anything’s held back and then ferreted out by some smart reporter.”
Only certain evidence, which might be needed for the trials of Patrick Jensen and Virgilio, would remain temporarily undisclosed. Jensen’s arrest, and the charges against him, had now become known.
As for Virgilio, there was doubt about whether he would ever be caught and tried. Metro-Dade Homicide, on learning of his participation in the wheelchair murder, had begun a search for him, as had Miami Homicide, because of his reported slayings of the Ernsts. But Virgilio had fled to his native Colombia, from where extradition was unlikely because of the mutual hostility between that country and the United States.
The news conference was held in the lobby of Police Headquarters, entry being controlled by several police officers near the main doorway, where credentials were examined. A podium and microphones were set up near the main-floor elevators. There, Evelio Jimenez, the public information officer—a former newspaper reporter with a frank, no-nonsense attitude—would be in charge.
Only minutes before the crowded conference began, city commission members, all of whom had already spoken with the chief, filed into the lobby, their expressions ranging from shock to grief. The media closed in on them, but no one responded to questions. When a microphone was thrust in the face of the mayor, he snapped uncharacteristically, “Take that away! Just listen to what they’ll tell you.”
TV cameras were rolling, microphones lined up like bean sprouts, and pencils and laptop computers were poised as the PIO announced, “Chief Farrell Ketledge.”
The chief of police stepped forward. He spoke solemnly, though he wasted no time in coming to the point.
“Without any doubt, this is the saddest day in my entire police career. I considered Cynthia Ernst to be a loyal colleague and good friend, and shall remember her, in part, that way, despite the crimes and horror that are now exposed. For as you will shortly hear in detail, Miss Ernst was a criminal, guilty, among other things, of the terrible murders of her parents …”
A collective gasp filled the hall. Simultaneously, several reporters rose hastily and left, heading for TV vans outside; others spoke into cellular phones.
The chief continued, mentioning the two murders Cynthia had helped to conceal while a Homicide detective. He then stated, “Earlier today, three grand jury indictments were issued for her arrest. It was during that arrest that Miss Ernst suddenly produced a concealed weapon, which she clearly intended to use on one of the arresting officers. The other officer fired a single shot, instantly killing Miss Ernst.
“We will, if you wish, talk more about that later, but for now I want to deal with today’s events, beginning with the grand jury indictments directed at Cynthia Ernst. So I will ask Mr. Curzon Knowles, head of the state attorney’s Homicide division, to describe those indictments and the evidence behind them.”
Knowles, dressed more formally than usual in a blue pinstriped suit, moved to the podium and spoke authoritatively for ten minutes, relating most of the facts presented to the grand jury. Many in the audience looked up from their notes and listened intently as he described Eleanor Ernst’s diaries and the details of child abuse. “I understand,” Knowles continued, “that significant pages of those diaries are being copied now and will be available soon.” A few questions were asked of Knowles, but none were aggressive. Most of the reporters seemed stunned at what was being revealed; there was a sense that plain words and frankness were the order of the day.
When Knowles concluded, Serrano took over. The assistant chief introduced Leo Newbold, who spoke briefly, then Malcolm Ainslie, who described the murders of Gustav and Eleanor Ernst and the attempt to make them look like earlier serial killings. It quickly became evident that Ainslie had a grasp of the entire complex scene, and for a half hour he responded clearly and confidently to reporters’ queries.
He was tiring, though, when a woman TV reporter asked, “We were told earlier …” She paused, consulting her notes. “… told by Lieutenant New-bold that you were the first one who believed the Ernst murders were not part of those earlier serials. Why did you have that first impression?”
He responded impulsively, “Because there’s no rabbit in Revelation,” then regretted the words the moment they were out.
After a puzzled silence the same woman asked, “Will you explain that?”
Ainslie glanced at Deputy Chief Serrano, who shrugged and told the journalists, “We have talented people here who sometimes solve crimes in unusual ways.” Then, to Ainslie: “Go ahead, tell them.”
Reluctantly, Ainslie began, “It goes back to symbols—left by a perpetrator at four murder scenes and eventually recognized as religious symbols inspired by the Book of Revelation in the Bible. At the Ernst murders a rabbit was left. It didn’t fit the pattern.”
While continuing to describe the earlier symbols, Ainslie remembered that all of that information had been held back from the media at the time, and never released later because there had been no need. In the end Elroy Doil was tried, sentenced, and executed for the Tempones’ murder only, where no symbol was involved.
Thus, this information was new, and also fascinating, judging by the number of reporters who, with heads down, were scribbling notes or typing on laptops.
As Ainslie concluded, a male voice asked, “Who figured out what those symbols meant?”
“I’ll answer that,” Serrano said. “It was Sergeant Ainslie who made the connection, and it led to several suspects, one of whom was Elroy Doil.”
A veteran print reporter asked, “Is it true, Sergeant Ainslie, that you were once a priest? Is that how you know your way around the Bible?”
It was a subject Ainslie had hoped would not come up. While he had made no great secret of his past, few outside the Department knew of it. Anyway, he answered, “Yes, I was, so in that regard it helped.”
Next a woman’s voice. “Why did you stop being a priest and become a cop?”
“Leaving the priesthood was my personal choice, freely made. The reasons were private and not relevant here, so I won’t discuss them.” He smiled. “For the record, I left behind no misbehavior; my acceptance as a police officer should vouch for that.” Despite the overlay of seriousness, there was some good-natured laughter.
Soon after, with many reporters eager to get going, the formal news conference broke up, though some reporters and TV crews stayed on, doing one-on-one interviews in both English and Spanish. Ainslie especially was in demand and remained an extra forty minutes. Even then, reporters followed him to his car, still filming and asking questions.
That same evening, and during the days that followed, Malcolm Ainslie was a prominent figure on television as his statements were featured, then repeated, interlaced with new developments. National network news reports carried the Cynthia Ernst story, with most depicting Ainslie as police spokesman. ABC’s “Nightline” reported at length the mysterious murder-scene symbols and their biblical interpretation, once more with Ainslie as the star.
The print press covered the Ernst stories, too, showing interest in Ainslie’s former priesthood. One probing reporter found a record of his doctoral degree and reputation as a scholar, mentioning Ainslie’s joint authorship of Civilization’s Evolving Beliefs, and that, too, was repeated around the country. His name appeared prominently in Newsweek and Time reports, and the national Sunday newspaper magazine, Parade, ran a cover story with the headline SCHOLARLY EX-PRIEST DETECTIVE LAUDED AS CRIME-SOLVING STAR.
The switchboard at Miami Police Headquarters received many calls from inquiring film and TV producers, all of it defying Assistant Chief Serrano’s prediction that no one would emerge from the Ernst debacle smelling sweet. Quite clearly, Ainslie did.
“I really wish all this would stop,” Ai
nslie confided to Leo Newbold.
“The way I hear, the guys up above us have the same feeling,” Newbold replied.
Whatever their unease, everyone in authority was clearly relieved that there would be no harrowing trial of Cynthia Ernst.
A few days after the news conference, Ainslie relayed to Leo Newbold his wish to leave Homicide. Newbold was understanding and sympathetic. Many other detectives had traveled the same route, and it was accepted that longtime Homicide duty imposed emotional strains that eventually could be disabling. While Ainslie was awaiting word about new duty, Newbold removed him from current Homicide assignments and placed him in charge of “cold cases”—old homicides being investigated with the aid of new technologies—a productive but “low emotion” area.
After three weeks, Newbold stopped by Ainslie’s desk and said, “Figueras wants to see you now.”
“Hi, Sergeant Ainslie!” Major Figueras’s secretary, Teodora Hernandez, greeted him as he entered the Criminal Investigations chief’s outer office. “Before you go in,” she asked, “would you do me a favor?”
“If I can, Teo.”
“Well, my kids keep seeing you on the tube and reading about you. Then when I said I knew you, they got all excited, asked if I could get your autograph.” She produced two white cards and held out a pen. “Would you mind?”
Embarrassed, he protested, “I’m not a celebrity.”
“Oh yes, you are! Write ‘For Petra’ on one card and ‘For Justo’ on the other.”
Taking the pen and cards, Ainslie scribbled the names and two signatures. He handed them back.
“I’ll be a hero at home tonight,” Teodora said as she led him toward the inner-office doorway, which, he noticed, was ajar.
Mark Figueras stood up as Ainslie came in, and he was grinning. “So, our celebrity! How does it feel?”
“Out of place, totally.” Ainslie grimaced.
“Well, it won’t stop soon. Can you live with it?”
“I suppose. But how about the Department, sir?”
“There might be a problem.” Figueras gestured dismissively. “Anyway, forget the formality, Malcolm. This is a talk I’ve been instructed to have with you—man-to-man stuff. Oh, but first there is one piece of formality. You are Lieutenant Ainslie, as of this moment.” He extended his hand. “Congratulations. A little late, maybe, but in the right direction.”
Ainslie wondered what was coming. The promotion pleased him, and he wanted more than anything to phone Karen and share it with her. But he waited for Figueras.
“Career-wise, you’re in good shape right now, Malcolm, and there are several routes you can go—most of your own choosing. The first is to command Homicide.” As Ainslie looked surprised, Figueras continued, “Leo Newbold is being made captain, and he’ll move to a new assignment. In your case you’d normally move, too, but your record in Homicide is outstanding, and an exception could be made if that’s your wish.”
“It isn’t.” Ainslie shook his head. “I already told Leo why I want out.”
“I’d heard that unofficially, and I understand it. We simply wanted you to know all the options.”
The “we” was significant. Whatever Figueras was relaying had come from the top.
“Okay, let’s weigh your future in the Department,” the Criminal Investigations chief went on. “You’ve made lieutenant at age forty-one. In another three years you could be captain, and after that, at the chief’s discretion, a major, though nothing’s certain, and all of it a little late compared with others, because you were older than most when you started. So maybe at forty-six you’d be a major after fifteen years of service, and above that, as you know, there are fewer jobs and the competition’s tough. So you might go higher, but major could be your limit before retirement. I’m being frank with you, Malcolm.”
“I prefer it that way.”
“There’s one other thing to be looked at, and I’m really leveling with you here. Recently you’ve had more public attention than probably anyone in the Department ever had before. One reason is that you’ve done spectacular work, especially in Homicide. But it was your old background as a priest and scholar that the media jumped on, which brings me to a point.”
Ainslie had a notion of what was coming.
“The thing is, Malcolm, because of all that attention, whatever you do in the Police Department now will be noticed by the media and probably magnified. Nothing really wrong in that, but to be truthful, the Department could be uncomfortable. As you know, few people here get consistent public attention, and that even includes the chief—most of Miami’s population probably don’t know his name. That’s how it’s always been, and most of us would like to see it stay that way.”
“Let’s be clear about this,” Ainslie said. “Are you telling me that despite all that’s happened—my promotion and the rest—you’d really like me out of the force?”
“If it seems that way to you,” Figueras said, “then I’ve done a lousy job, because that’s the last thing I wanted to convey. But what most of us here do feel, Malcolm, is that what’s left for you in the Department simply doesn’t measure up to your abilities. What we’d like to see happen is for you to move on to something more advantageous to you, and that would make better use of your special talents.”
“Trouble is,” Ainslie said, “I haven’t done much reading of the want ads lately. Looks as though I should.”
Figueras laughed. “‘Want’ is an appropriate word. The fact is—and this is mostly what this talk is about—an organization outside the Police Department has been in touch with the chief, the mayor, and maybe others, and wants you very much—on highly favorable terms, I understand.”
Ainslie was confused. “Is this organization something, or someone, that I know?”
“I don’t think so. The person most concerned is the chairman of the board of trustees of South Florida University.” Figueras consulted a paper on his desk. “His name is Dr. Hartley Allardyce. Would you be agreeable to a meeting?”
Life was full of unexpected twists and turns, Ainslie reflected. He answered, “What can I say but yes?”
6
“This may surprise you, Dr. Ainslie,” Hartley Allardyce said, “but we’ve been talking about you a lot at our university—ever since your talents and background became so widely known.”
“Yes, it surprises me,” Ainslie said. “Lately, almost everything surprises me.”
It was three days after his conversation with Major Mark Figueras. Now Ainslie and Allardyce were at dinner together at Miami’s downtown City Club. Ainslie found it strange to be called “Doctor.” Though it was valid scholastically, he had not heard it spoken aloud for years, and even as a priest he hadn’t used it. In these present circumstances, though …
Dr. Allardyce, who seemed to enjoy talking, continued, “The public loves a local hero, always has, and you became one when you solved those hideous crimes. The bonus was that you did it intellectually, using scholarly knowledge, which is why you’re so admired by educators, myself included.”
Ainslie smiled self-consciously and murmured thanks.
Waving the interruption aside, Allardyce went on, “What has happened to you, in terms of becoming a public figure, could not have occurred at a more opportune time—both for me and for others whom I represent. And, I hope, for you.”
Hartley Allardyce was as impressive an individual as his name implied. He was silver-haired, handsome, and deeply tanned, with a confident manner and a buoyant smile. He had been born to wealth, then had enlarged it as the head of an international investment fund, enriching others also. At the same time he was passionately interested in higher education, hence the South Florida University connection.
“I’ve been chairman of the SFU trustees for six years,” he explained, “and in all that time have wanted to develop a lecture program on comparative religions. We have a Department of Religion and Philosophy, of course, but it doesn’t deal with comparatives to the extent I’d like.??
?
Allardyce paused as a waiter served their main course, filet mignon with béarnaise sauce. “By the way, I hope you like this wine. It’s an Opus One, originated by two of the world’s great vintners—Robert Mondavi in the Napa Valley and the late Philippe de Rothschild in Bordeaux. Do try it.”
“It’s superb,” Ainslie reported, and it was. He had heard of the famous wine, though on a detective-sergeant’s pay he could never have afforded it.
“Let me get to the point,” Allardyce said, “as to why you’re here. Most university students these days are opting for the hot-action areas of education: business, medicine, law, and engineering. But I’d like to show our young people the value of studying comparative religions.
“Diverse religions say so much—far more than conventional history—about the times in which people live, and their state of mind in every age and society; their fears, hopes, and pleasures; what they dread, consciously and subconsciously, with death always high on the list; and whether there’s anything beyond death, or merely oblivion—no doubt the greatest fear of all. Do have more wine, Dr. Ainslie.”
“Thank you, no. I’m doing fine. But before we go any further, there’s something I want to say.”
“The last thing I wish is to monopolize. Please go ahead.”
“Something you ought to know, Dr. Allardyce, is that while I’m fascinated by comparative religions and always have been, I do not believe in any of them. Haven’t for a long time.”
“I already knew that,” Allardyce said, “and it makes no difference. It may even make you more objective. You’re sure about no more wine?”
“Quite sure, thank you.”
“So the reason I’ve brought you here is that I have, just recently, raised enough money to build a new Religion and Philosophy Center on campus. A good deal of it comes from a personal friend who is on the point of pledging several million dollars. However, since reading about you and your unique qualifications, my friend has added a condition to the gift. In addition to the building, there’ll be an endowment for a professor in comparative religions, to be described as a distinguished scholar. The point is, Dr. Ainslie, my friend wants you.”